Help!
by cheesycheese
Summary: There's an accident while the Beatles are on their U.S tour, and John is hurt. But their misfortune doesn't stop there, and they must rely on each other to get through it. Lots of angst and brotherly love :D
1. Chapter 1

Yay my first beatles fanfic. So this is not entirely my idea. There's a beatles fanfiction novel online called 'into my life' by Diane Hubert. I don't remember the exact site, but if you wanna read it I'm pretty sure googling it will help. Now, don't get me wrong, the novel was great, but after a while it just turned out to be about Paul and the OC. But I LOVED the main idea in the beginning of John's accident, so I'm going to be going from there, but from the beatles perspective, mostly John and Paul. All I borrowed was that idea, the rest of the story is gonna be different

Hope you guys like it! Read and review pleeaassee :D :D

It was mid 1964, at the height of beatlemania. The Beatles were two months into their first ever U.S tour, and were currently on their way to New York City, their next stop. The four were comfortably seated in a private jet, along with their regular entourage. This included Mal, their head of security, Brian, their manager, and four other guys responsible for making sure their luggage was transported to the hotel  
George had just gotten up to go to the restroom. Ringo sat in the window seat next to where George had been, now staring out the window. They were sitting in the two seats to the left of the plane, while John and Paul sat in two seats to the right. They had been flying so much in the past two months that they were all sick of it. Generally active, the inactivity of the plane drove them all crazy.  
Paul had been fiddling with his guitar, but stopped thirty minutes ago when he noticed that John had dozed off, not wanting to disturb him.

"He asleep?' George had asked, somewhat surprised

'Yeah'

'Blimey he can't sleep through the fans but he can sleep through the noise of the fucking plane' Ringo had said, grinning

That had been a constant problem wherever they went. The fans. All four of them really appreciated all the love and suppost they were getting, but sometimes they went too far. They would surround the hotel around the clock, cheering and screaming. It was like they didn't need to sleep. Maybe they took shifts, Paul mused. But the noise would bother them and the rest of the hotel guests, so they had gotten used to the dirty looks. But at some point, him and George and Ringo could tune out the noise and fall asleep

John, however, was a different matter. He was a naturally light sleeper, and would mostly stay up all night. Whenever Paul got up at night to get some water, John would either be in the living room of their suite writing or just staring out the window. He always tried to play it off, but Paul knew better. Sometimes he would join him and they would talk or write together, and John's constant yawning and baggy eyes would give him away.

Beside him, John shifted slightly, still asleep. Paul glanced at him. He was slumped against the window, hand under his head. Paul frowned slightly, noting again how exhausted John looked. He was kind of glad he had let John take the window seat, so he could nap peacefully. As soon they had entered the plane, both of them had gotten into their usual arguement over who would get the window seat. They'd both started scuffling, Mal had broken them apart and Ringo had played peacemaker, told them both to stop acting like children. Brian and George had just rolled their eyes, choosing to stay out of it. Paul had sighed dramatically and let John have it for once, smirking when John had giggled excitedly and looked smug once he sat down.

George came back from the restroom, smacking Paul's arm when the latter tried to trip him on his way to his seat, grinning. The plane suddenly lurched horribly, and John jerked awake. He immediately closed his eyes, putting his hand on his forehead.

'Headache?' Paul asked

'Yeah. Haven't been able to shake the bastard off' John replied, leaning back into his seat again, eyes still closed.

Paul frowned. Of course, all those sleepless nights were starting to take their toll on him. Sure, they were all exhausted. Between the countless interviews, long shows all night and constantly being mobbed by fans, they weren't sure where they got all their energy. But at least they slept.  
'I'm fine Macca' paul turned to look at John. He'd finally opened his eyes and had his head tipped back, looking down his nose at paul with an amused expression. Typical John. He'd been swearing twice as much all morning, a sure sign something was wrong. And that was saying something, because John Lennon swore a lot!

Paul rolled his eyes 'Sure you are'

John turned serious, a rare thing. 'It's just a headache, Paul. Get them all the time' he said quietly. Then he grinned. 'You just want me to keel over so you can have your precious window seat back!'

Paul snorted 'If I wanted the seat, I would have gotten it'

'Oh please. You could never have beat me'

'Yes I could!'

'You cry at the dentists, I doubt you could take a punch'

'That was one time!'

'Children!' Ringo cut in irritatibly 'Play nice!'

'Yes mammy' they both chorused, showing him the finger. He rolled his eyes. They both snickered. George was struggling to keep a straight face  
An announcement sounded saying they were about to land. They all put their seatbelts on. It had been a very short flight, only two hours, but Paul could tell that the short nap had done John some good. He had played along with the banter, but he knew John's head was still bothering him. He was still rubbing his forehead, but looked a bit more relaxed. God knows he would need to be to face the mob surely waiting at the airport.

Paul unbuckled his seatbelt, got up, and stowed his guitar in its case, putting it back in the baggage compartment. John silently watched him, then looked out the window. They were almost there, and he could make out the mob of people waiting for them.

He sighed. His head was really killing him. It was this throbbing pain that started from this point at the back of his head, and stretched down to his neck and over to behind his eyes. Typical tension headache, he thought miserably. He'd had enough of them over the years to know that. Paul sat back down an joined him looking out the window. John knew that Paul knew exactly what was going on. They both could read each other perfectly.

The plane finally landed, slowing into a taxi. Mal exited the plane as soon as it stopped, to go talk to the security outside. The rest of them remained seated, watching from the window on Ringo and George's side as the barrier was opened and the people were allowed onto the runway. 'It's time, boys' Brian said, rising from his seat behind them and making his way to the exit to the front. The four beatles followed, John trailing behind.

The attendant, who looked excited beyond belief, opened the door, and the roar of the crowd washed over them. John winced as it sent a stab of pain through his already throbbing head. Paul turned and threw a worried look in his direction, then quickly turned around and walked out. John sighed and followed, plastering a smile on his face and waving to the fans as the noise continued to assault his ears. He really needed some aspirin.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey peoples! New chappie! :D so I got like 4 reviews in one day, so thank you all for that. Enjoy :D

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The 'transfer' from the plane to the limo was relatively uneventful. John mentally snorted. It was like they were precious artifacts or something. They had been the way to the hotel when they got stuck in traffic. The police were supposed to have it under control, but there had been an accident and it had caused a whole lineup

Brian was sitting across from him, continously checking his watch and randomly yelling at the driver, saying they were already late, not caring one bit if anyone was hurt in the accident.  
Now, John Lennon wasn't the nicest guy in the world. Not by a long shot, and he knew it. But even he wanted to make sure that no one was hurt. Mal didn't want anyone to leave the car for security reasons, so he called god knows who and found out that around 3 cars had been involved, but no one was seriously hurt. Everyone was oddly relieved.

John resisted the urge to lean his head back on the seat, knowing full well that Paul was watching him intently. The headache had worn off somewhat, now reduced to a dull throb, but he felt exhausted. He just wanted to get to the hotel, pop some aspirin and take a small nap. Maybe take some sleeping pills to sleep through the fans

'Bloody hell! The fans are going to be frantic!' Brian cried out suddenly.

'Calm down Eppy. We can't do anything about it at the moment, might as well relax' John said sick of the complaining. Brian didn't get a chance to retort as the traffic finally started moving.

'Finally!' he cried dramatically

'Jeez Brian I TOLD you to go pee pee before we left the house!' John scolded mock exparastedly.

Brian just rolled his eyes while the other thre beatles snickered. 'You're such a child' He said

'I'm not the one who has to go pee pee'

'I do NOT have to go pee pee!' Brian retorted harshly, then turned red. The others openly laughed at Brian saying the word 'pee pee', while John just grinned cheekily at him.

'Leave eppy alone, John' Paul scolded seriously. Brian looked gratful for the help, but then Paul broke out into a huge grin. 'You KNOW how he gets when it's that time of the month' he cracked, unable to control his laughter anymore. Brian glared at Paul while everybody burst out laughing again. Ringo choked on the bottled water he was drinking, spewing it all over Paul, who immediately stopped laughing

'Fuck!' Paul cried out, wiping his face and pushing his now soaking wet hair out of his eyes, glaring at Ringo. Ringo just kept laughing with the rest of them, Brian looking particularly pleased. 'Blimey they're crawling out of their skins!' George exclaimed, peering out the window, effectively distracting Paul from pouncing on Ringo. Everyone seemed a little surprised that they'd gotten there so quickly, but looked nonetheless.

Sure enough, it looked like they'd EATEN coffee beans in the morning. They were jumping around, screaming, some of them even crying. Security seemed to be on even higher alert than usual at the Hilton. It was a magnificent hotel, with at least 15 floors. The Beatles had had their fair share of fancy hotels, but this one was definitely in the top 10.

'Well, here goes lads' Brian said, rubbing his hands together. He got out of the car first along with Mal. The four Beatles remained seated, knowing they had to wait for Mal's customary double tap on the window before they got out.

While the three other Beatles got into their usual arguement over who the fan favourite was, John stayed uncharacteristically quiet. The back of his eyes ached, while his eyes themselves grainy from exhaustion. With a growing feeling of dread, John realized that he may actually be feeling a bit feverish. Maybe Paul was right, all those sleepless nights may have finally driven him to his breaking point

'John!'

Ringo's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. All three of them had stopped arguing and were looking at him concerned. He'd been staring blankly out of thd window and they'd noticed his unusual silence. 'You feeling okay mate?' Without waiting for an answer, Ringo reached out a hand and placed it on his forehead. He frowned and removed his hand as John slapped it away.

'You have a fever Lennon! Why didn't you say anything?'  
John shrugged, then waved him off 'I'm fine' he replied, pushing his hair out of his forehead. Paul and Ringo both opened their mouths to say something, but Mal's taps on the window interrupted them.

Ringo looked at him sternly as Paul and George climbed out of the limo, throwing concerned looks in his direction. 'I'm gonna tell Brian to get a doctor later' he said seriously, climbing out before John could protest. He huffed irritatibly, then followed Ringo, bracing himself once again.

They were going to enter through the front entrance of the hotel. The barricades stretched out through the entire front of the hotel, with a small opening left on the right, the side at which the limo arrived. They were going to be guided through to the small opening to the front entrance. Simple enough, George had commented. The fans were practically trying to jump over the barricades, screaming at the top of their lungs. John quietly sighed. He loved the fans, he really did. But the obsession they held for them made him kind of uneasy.

Nevertheless, he grinned at them as he was ushered forward by security. The security at the barricades seemed to have their hands full as the fans seemed more hysterical than usual, probably due to the delay. John continued to wave at them as he followed Ringo, who kept glancing worriedly at him, as if he would keel over any second. John frowned, and kept walking.

All of a sudden, the wind picked up. It had been a cloudy day, with everyone anticipating rain. A particularly strong gust of wind ruffled John's hair, but also blew dust directly at security at the barricades. Nearly all of them flinched back in surprise as it blew into their eyes. The fans remained unaffected as they had their backs to the wind.

John and Ringo were a good 15 feet from the main entrance when the fans realized that security was distracted, and promptly jumped the barricades. Before they could even move, four gaurds had grabbed him and Ringo and were shoving them towards the left, away from the front entrance.

'Move!' one of them yelled, and him and Ringo were manhandled towards the side of the building, hundreds of fans trying to get to them. In a matter of seconds, John felt himself turn the corner and pushed through a door, Ringo and two other gaurds nearly on top of him  
John felt a burst of cool air as he entered into the air conditioned building. He'd barely had time to get his bearings when a hard shove from behind drove him straight into a wooden railing up to his waist.

Now normally, John had very good reflexes, mainly due to all the times in hamburg when he got into fights or angered the audience to the point where they threw stuff at him. Normally, John would have been able to get his bearings faster or grab onto something. Unfortunately, the exhausted, feverish John Lennon could not do either of these things.

He felt the railing give before he heard the loud crack, his heart literally skipping a beat. The ground suddenly vanished, and before he knew it, he was falling. He let out a surprised yelp and braced himself as best as he could as the large dining table rushed up to meet him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello People! I bring update :D sorry it took so long but getting this chapter done has been absolute hell. I re wrote it like 3 times, then got a beta, bluetruth, who is awesome. She actually wrote a whole new version of this chapter for me, and edited my old one, so I mixed them both up and got this :D so this is a collaborated chapter, in a way :D**

**Enjoy :D**

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John fell hard, his upper body taking the brunt of the fall. Glass shattered under him, sending spikes of pain throughout him. He literally felt himself bounce before the table tipped, sending him crashing onto the hard tile floor. The only thing John was aware of, was the pain. It was white hot and consumed his whole body. His entire upper body felt like it was on fire, but his lower body didn't feel much better. His shoulder felt oddly disconnected, but still felt like it was being stabbed with a poison-tipped blade.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he curled onto his right, the side which didn't feel like it was being torn apart, screwed his eyes shut, and buried his face in the floor. After a few torturous moments, the initial pain wore off slightly. It was like all his other senses suddenly came rushing back. He was abruptly aware of the sweat on his face, Mal yelling for a medic in the background and Ringo's frantic voice calling him.

"Open your eyes John!" Ringo said forcefully, whom John just realized was right in front of him.

He flinched at the loudness of his voice, and cracked his eyes open to mere slits. Everything was blurry and tinted red in his left eye. Something sticky and thick was blocking his vision. After a few blinks, the red stuff, which he then realized was blood, cleared and everything came into focus. Ringo's face was the first thing he saw.

"Oh thank God," Ringo muttered, then spoke up.

"Where's it hurt, Johnny?"

John glared at him. When he spoke, he was faintly surprised that he could, but his voice was still cracked and dry.

"Everywhere."

Ringo nodded, then after a brief moment, said, "This is gon' hurt."

"What are you-?" He cried out in pain as Ringo proceeded to turn him over. What might've been gentle to the drummer still felt worse than hell to John. His vision clouded with large black spots and the pain flared in his shoulder, ribs, head, and now, his knee. He wanted to roll back to his more comfortable position (Though not by much), but the pain was too much. He moaned, and Mal appeared on  
his side.

A string of somewhat angry, but mostly surprised and half- hearted curses left his mouth. Ringo apologized, but didn 't do anything to move him again. Mal was talking to someone John couldn 't see. He did see, however, Ringo's eyes stray to his arm and gasp.

"Mm?" John asked, in too much pain to really say anything else. He forced his stiff neck to look at his arm, dreading what he would see. He gasped as well. Even through his suit, he could see his mangled shoulder was dislocated, which probably explained the semi-numb feeling.

Tiny pinpricks of pain were spread throughout his shoulder, but the pain wasn't terrible anymore. He was slowly losing feeling. He flexed his fingers, and was horrified to see they barely moved, even though it felt like he was clenching them.

"Oh, god," He whispered.

"Bloody hell," Ringo breathed.

Mal's eyes flicked between John and his hand. "Where's that medic?" He shouted, which made John jump. The pain flared again, and he let out a  
strangled whimper.

"Mal, calm down! You're only making it worse!" Ringo scolded harshly.

"Should we move him off the floor?" A worried voice asked, sounding confused. Ringo shook his head.

"No. We have to know his injuries first. If we move him, we could make him worse. "

When everybody gave him a strange look, he shrugged. "I picked up a thing or two when I was in the hospital when I was a kid. "

Just then, the elevator dinged, and Paul and George, both looking anxious and terrified, stepped out, followed by a woman in white who John assumed was the medic.

"What the hell happened?" Paul demanded, kneeling by his injured friend 's side. His hands hovered over him hesitantly, unsure whether to pat him or to just let him be. He settled on crossing them. George knelt next to Paul looking with wide eyes between John and Ringo.

"He fell." Ringo supplied, pointing to the railing that had  
given way.

George and Paul looked to where he was pointing, and both of them inhaled sharply. A small table was tipped onto its side, glasses and plates smashed on the floor, some of them dripping with blood. Around fifteen feet above was the railing which had broken. They both tried not to look as terrified as they both felt. They couldn't believe he'd fallen so far, but they knew they had to stay  
calm.

"Are you okay, man?" George asked, his eyes wide, knowing full well that it was an irrelevant question given the situation and John's appearance, but not sure what else to say. "You're not  
going to die on us are you?"

"Just dandy. When do we get to see the room?" he replied mock excitedly, ignoring George's second question.

Paul rolled his eyes. Typical John, he thought, though deep, deep, down, he was relieved. If he can joke, that 's a good thing, right?

The medic had opened his coat, and was now undoing his shirt buttons to check him over. Everybody inhaled sharply at the angry redness on his left side and chest. John hissed as she felt them over, even though she was doing so gently.

"Sorry," The nurse muttered under her breath absently, not sounding at all apologetic. She pressed the cool metal of a stethoscope to his chest, which felt good until she pressed harder. She lifted his hand, (Which had been resting uselessly on his stomach) and he cried out. When she askedhim what had hurt, he  
muttered, "Me wrist."

When she felt around the bone, he screwed up his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled, as to keep from crying out. The nurse nodded thoughtfully, the other three Beatles glancing worriedly from John 's pain-filled face to the nurse's actions.

John hissed at random points when the pain got to be too much to hold in. When she made it to his left arm, he yelled out a loud "Ow!" then proceeded to swear. Again.

Ignoring the foul, yet undeniably creative language, she whipped out a tiny flashlight from a belt hidden beneath her white coat. She gently shone it into his right eye, looking worried when he grunted and flinched away, eyes squeezed shut. The nurse's eyes widened, and she began frantically asking him questions.

"What's today's date?" She asked, flipping the flashlight off.

"Look me in the eye, now. Don't worry, the flashlight's off." He cracked his eyes open and looked at her tiredly.

"March sixth, 1965."

"What city are you in?"

"New York."

"When is your birthday?"

"October ninth."

"What year-"

"You're pretty!" John cut in with

a false grin and chirpy voice. The nurse was unamused.

"Aside from the cut, does your head hurt?"

His goofy expression disappeared and he sighed. "It's been hurting me all day."

Paul could have kicked himself.

"He had a fever! He's been having trouble sleeping and was kinda out of it all day. And  
before coming in, Rings found out he was burning up." He recounted quickly.

The nurse glared at him. "And you didn't feel it would be important to say this earlier?"

Paul looked sheepish. "I forgot," Glancing at the nurse's nametag, he said, "Sorry, Brenda."

Brenda wordlessly looked up at Ringo, who nodded, looking ashamed at himself for forgetting. Paul and George mirrored his guilt, while John just looked amused, grinning like a total loon. Frowning,  
she placed a hand at his forehead, and then turned to Mal, telling him to get an ambulance and call down the senior medic.

Paul was just about to ask her for the whole explanation when Brian came out of the elevator, running towards them.

"What happened? Are you okay?" He asked, sounding terrified. John struggled to sit up but stopped at a death glare by the nurse.

"I'm fine, Brian," He insisted. "No matter what the bird says." His headache was back with a vengeance, and now exhaustion was joining the pain. That blackness was so inviting, he just wanted to curl up and sink into it...

"John!" Brian shouted, which caused him to snap his eyes open and jolt back to reality.

"What? What? I'm here! What?"

Brenda glared at him. "You can't sleep, not yet, anyways. Anyway, as I was saying, you have a dislocated shoulder that we must set very soon. You have a broken left wrist and a broken knee. Your ribs are also severely bruised, but as far as I can tell without equipment is that none are broken, which is good. It's the shoulder I'm most worried about, though. Can you move your hand?"

He tried to clench it, and was terrified to see it obeyed him less then before. Brenda looked worried. "Oh no. Okay, once the senior medic gets here we're setting it. We can't afford to waste time getting to the hospital. "

John and Paul paled considerably at this, and John felt the dread building up inside him. He gulped.

"What happens if you don't set it on time?" Brian asked, trying, and failing, to hide his trembling  
voice.

Brenda was grim as she replied. "Well, depending on the seriousness of the dislocation, he could lose control of his arm. He would probably need it amputated. "

Everybody's eyes widened as they digested this new piece of information.

"Fuck," John breathed, then desperately tried to wriggle is fingers again. They hardly twitched.

"Set it now!" Paul and George demanded at the same time. They gave each other a look.

Brenda looked unsure. "If I don't set it right, he could have more of a chance of losing the arm then if we wait. "

"He could still lose it anyway!" Ringo cut in with a glare. "Set it now!"

John paled, but felt a bit better that his mates were so worried. Usually, they all put on their manly-man-beast persona, but every once in a while, they slipped away. Take now, for instance.

"I'm not even completely sure I know how," Brenda said, looking worried. "I've never done it before, and I'd rather not be held responsible if I do it wrong. "

"God damn it, woman! Just set his fucking shoulder before he has to get it cut off !"

Brenda ignored the foul language and sighed. "Fine. But I don't want to get sued-"

"Just. Set. The. Arm." Paul said, slowly and deliberately. "We can't afford him losing his arm."

John felt weak as he tried to imagined life without his arm, and almost passed out when he realized he couldn't. He couldn't live without his rock 'n roll.

George, Ringo and Brian moved away, presumably to discuss what had happened, and to give John some apparently much- needed space. As the medic reached for her kit, Paul went and sat down  
cross-legged on John's right. The senior medic still wasn't there, and Paul supposed he was probably busy with the mob outside. He started running his fingers through John's hair, gently massaging his scalp. Normally, a thousand homophobic jokes would have been made at this, but no one seemed to find anything funny at the moment. Except John, maybe. His face relaxed somewhat, and he cracked an eye open to look at him.

"You fucking fairy." He said quietly, giving him a half- hearted smile, but still looking grateful.

Paul snorted, surprised yet slightly relieved that John still had the strength to joke around.

"Do I look like Brian to you?" Paul whispered back, too low for Brenda to hear, still grinning.

"Could be brothers," John replied.

The nurse finished making the sling and reached up and grabbed his shoulder.

"This is going to hurt," She told him. "Are you ready?"

John looked at Paul, who nodded. They were both thinking the same thing, about the time Paul had tripped off stage and dislocated his knee. One of the first real injuries Paul had ever gotten, it was terrifying and excruciatingly painful.

**FLASHBACK:**

Paul doubled over laughing, backing up slowly. All of them were laughing, and they didn't know why. It was like one of them cracked a smile, one of the giggled, then the next thing you know they all were cracking up hysterically.

Paul, thinking there was a wall there, started to lean back. Only too late, and after seeing John's eyes go wide, did he realize he had miscalculated. He just managed to spin around in midair before he landed on his leg. Hard.

The pain was the worst thing. His leg was bent at a funny angel; not broken, but by the slightly numb feeling kind of dulling the pain, he knew it was bad. Didn't your body only block out pain when something was seriously wrong?

He tried to bite back tears, but it was hard. They were already forming on the edge of his eyes, threatening to spill over. By the time to medic had gotten there, John, George, and Ringo were all surrounding him, as well as Mal and Brian.

"This is going to hurt," The medic had said, putting each on on both sections of the mangled leg. "Quite a lot."

Paul nodded and, really without thinking, grabbed John's hand and clutched it tight. John, kind of stunned, didn't pull away, just positioned himself so he was on Paul's other side. The bassist burrowed his face into John's shoulder and cried, trying to make his sobs of pain silent. He hated pain.

With a sudden and very, very painful 'pop!' his knee was back in place. The feeling rushed back into it, causing it to get pins and needles, but really, he didn't care. The pain was much less now, and only then did he realize the gentle patting on his shoulder. He pulled out of John's shoulder and gave a him a weak half smile, only nodding. He didn't talk; he didn't need to.

John didn't seem to notice the wet stain on his shirt, or maybe he did and he just ignored it. Paul could only hope that the others would do the same

**END OF FLASHBACK.**

Glancing at Paul, John took in a short breath and nodded. "Yeah."

Brenda gave them a tight nod. "Very well. On three."

Without another word, she popped his shoulder back into place; not bothering with the count. For a moment the pain was blinding, and he roared, clenching his fists so hard he drew blood. Paul was looking at him concerntedly, as were the other two Beatles.

'What the fuck happened to one two three?' John vried weakly, glaring at the nurse, who ignored him.

"Are you okay?" He murmured, and John forced a nod.

"Better," He lied so only the bassist could hear.

Paul seemed to know of his fib as he gave John's back a reassuring pat as they helped him lay down. He rolled up his jacket and gave it to him as a pillow, which he took thankfully. The pain was so, so bad. As if someone were hammering his shoulder with a spike-covered hammer. He let out a small hiss, so low he thought nobody could hear it. But Paul did.

"Can't you give him something for the pain?" Paul pleaded, knowing only a fraction of how much pain John was in.

"I'm sorry, but he's gonna have to wait till we get him to the hospital."

The crew and the medics started making plans for moving John onto the stretcher. John exhaled nervously. This was gonna suck


	4. Chapter 4

**I haven't abandoned this story! :D sorry it took so fucking long, and to bluetruth, I'm sorry I didn't send this to you to edit but I didn't wanna wait any longer. Hope you guys enjoy, and feel free to pm or review with ideas on what should happen next, I'd really appreciate it :)**

**Btw, you guys, Nowhere boy. What a fucking awesome movie, I cried so much. And the music. I'm raping the soundtrack right now :P if you haven't seen it, go watch. Now! Or at least get the soundtrack..**

**Enjoy :D**

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Later that day, George and Ringo made their way through the crowded hospital, trying to find John's room. They'd only been able to break away an hour ago, after Brian had forced both of them to stay in the hotel after the accident to avoid a media circus at the hospital. They'd both protested, but Brian had been adamant, furiously telling them to cooperate for once while he tried to sort everything out.

And cooperated they had, grudgingly staying in their hotel room like good little rockstars. They'd finally been allowed to go after a couple of hours, with Paul having called from the hospital before that to tell them that John was going to be okay.

But now they were hopelessly lost, and George's patience was wearing thin. It'd been a fucking long day, one of his best mates was really hurt, the nurses and patients wouldn't stop drooling over them, and now they were lost on top of it!

'I think we should turn here, Geo' Ringo said thoughtfully from besides him, gesturing to a corridor to their left. George sighed irritatibly. It looked the same as every other hall they'd gone down. He was pretty sure the nurse at the reception had messed up the directions she'd given them to get to John's room, as starstruck and glassy eyed as she'd looked.

'Go for it Rings' He replied quietly, wondering if they were on the wrong floor altogether. Ringo nodded before making his way down the hall.

'Guys! Guys over here!'

George's head snapped up as he heard Paul's voice. He looked to the corridor to  
his right to see him waving to the from a room at the very end.

'Thank god. Rings!' He called, making his way down to the room. He could hear Ringo jogging behind him to catch up as Paul disappeared into the room again

'John! How you feeling mate?' He asked once they entered the gloomy room, which was already filled with flowers.

'Like I fell off a bloody plane' John grumbled, scratching at the bandage on his head. Paul slapped it away and John glared at him. Honestly, John looked terrible. There were bandages everywhere and he looked incredibly uncomfortable.

'We were really worried bout you mate. That was a terrible fall.' Ringo said sympathetically, sitting down at the edge of John's bed, where George joined him.

'Yeah you really scared us'

'But at least he's gonna be ok, eh? Thank god for that' Paul chimed in

'Thank god for that' George repeated with a nod.

'God bless America!'

Everybody looked at Ringo strangely with their lips twitching, but he just bopped his head with a smile. John suddenly shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he did so. Everybody visibly tensed up.

'Guys, c'mon, I'm not gonna break or something. My bum's just so bloody sore I can't get comfortable!' John grumbled, looking irritated

'Your bum?' Paul asked with his eyebrows raised, a grin peeling onto his face. Ringo was snickering into his hand.

'Yeah, me bum, Macca. Me round, soft, lily white..'

Brian walked in at this point, giving John a strange look.

'...bum' he finished, and only then noticed that Brian was there. He gave him a wicked grin. Brian conveniently blushed. Everyone burst out laughing.

'Uh, well lads, I just talked to John's doctor' He started nervously. Everybody stopped laughing immediately. George noticed that John looked even more depressed all of a sudden, but didn't say anything, instead focusing back on Brian

'John's going to be okay, as you lads know, but..' he sighed, and the dread grew in George's gut. 'It's going to take a couple of months for him . At least'

The tension in the room suddenly grew tenfold. It was the one thing they'd all been dreading, something they'd known was a very likely possibility, but they'd been trying to deny it. One question was clear, however. What about the tour?

Paul was the first to recover from the shock, but George suspected it was because he already knew, considering he'd been here for hours.

'Well then we'll just cancel the tour' he said firmly, and everyone turned to look at him 'Or at least postpone it until Johns better'

Paul seemed to be boring holes into Brian, who was still standing in the doorway, as if daring him to say otherwise.

'Boys we can't. The amount of refunds, the costs we'd incur..they would be tremendous. Not to mention the impact on your image'

'Fuck our image!' George shot back angrily. 'And fuck the bloody costs, if John can't go on, neither will we!'

'He's right Brian. Either its all of us, or none of us at all' Ringo agreed, albeit a lot calmer than him and Paul.

Brian looked slightly torn. 'Alright, but I still want you all to talk it over. But I think its safe to say I should cancel todays show, eh?'

Everybody gave him a look which Brian had come to interpret as meaning 'No shit, sherlock'. He nodded, quickly leaving the room with a sigh, a swell of pride for his boys in his chest.

John shifted again, avoiding everybody's eyes.

'God bless America my lily white arse.'


	5. Chapter 5

**And yet another chapter :D to the anon reviewer, happy late birthday! I tried to get it in sooner, but I'm sorry, and I hope you enjoy it now. **

**Happy reading, you guys, and please review**

**That includes you, Blue :P**

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John Lennon woke up to the sound of all-too-familiar snoring, only feet from his head. He tried his best to just ignore it, but it persisted, only getting louder and more intense with each passing his nose in irritation, he opened his eyes with a low huff, wondering why the fuck Ringo was sleeping in his room. He usually roomed with George or Paul when they were touring.

John was slightly dismayed when his blurry vision recognized the dull and institutionalized hospital room. He'd been very naïvely been hoping that his whole accident had been some stupid, incredibly realistic dream, but the way his shoulder was sore and the rest of his body felt numb after the boatloads of medication they'd dumped onto him, it'd been pretty clear it wasn't.

There was a particularly loud snore and John turned to see Ringo curled up on the corner of the couch, using his small body mass to his advantage, while George was lying on the other side in an equally odd position. His lanky legs were kicked up on the head of the couch, while he was leaning backwards onto the coffee table that he had drawn closer to the couch to use as a pillow/body supporter.

John smirked fondly at the memory. How his bandmates had refused to leave for the night, insisting that they be allowed to stay or take John with them. George had finally blown up at Brian when he'd tried to order him around, telling him to either pick an option, or just take the lamp on John's bedside and shove it up his arse. The three of them then proceeded to find a couch from God knows where and drag it into the room. John could almost picture the faces of the people in the waiting room when they saw three out of four angry Beatles storm in, promptly pick up a couch, and stomp out, cursing and grumbling the entire way back to the room. When they returned, George had apologized to Brian, only minutes after setting the couch up, but firmly told him they were still going to stay.

Brian had grudgingly relented, saying that he'd try to bump up security for them. John knew Brian was secretly proud of their fierce loyalty for each other, even if he didn't always say it. Hell, John himself never said it. He was so damn grateful to have the three of them as his mates, especially at times like these, but they would go to the grave before they'd admit it. They were willing to tell Brian off and go through so much trouble just for him, because they knew he wouldn't want to be stuck in a stuffy hospital room by himself. The four Beatles were automatically willing to risk _everything_ for each other, and though none of them would say so, it made John proud to see the only people in the world who understood what life under a microscope was life so easily stick up for him. And because they were worried. This last part they probably wouldn't admit very easily, but John knew. All these things, they were just sort of unsaid between them, but  
they all knew. Everybody knew. It was what made them so popular among the, well, world.

The sound of soft humming broke John out of his unlike-tough-John-Lennon-y thoughts. He turned to see Paul leaning back in a chair by the wall, looking as if he owned the place. John had just started to wonder where the bugger was, but he wasn't surprised that Paul hadn't noticed he was awake. Because, ladies and gentlemen, Paul McCartney was writing, yes, you guessed it, a song! He was holding his red notebook so close to his face he was starting to go cross eyed, still humming a tune John hadn't heard yet, so he assumed it was a new, painfully cheerful yet completely brilliant one he'd just come up with.

Paul spoke without looking up. "Stop staring at me Lennon. I know it's hard, but you can try."

John rolled his eyes, putting his good hand on his heart while giving Paul a cheesy grin "I can't help it, love. You're just so beautiful." He replied dreamily.

Paul pretended to blush, girlishly swatting a hand at him. "Oh stop it, you"

"Bloody poof"

Paul laughed, setting his notebook down and dragging his chair as quietly as he could over to John's bed, which, much to John's delight, wasn't so quiet. It made an awful screeching sound that didn't affect John, yet made Paul's skin crawl.

"You feelin' better?" Paul asked, settling down again and wondering why John was awake. John nodded, fiddling with the itchy sling strap on his shoulder.

"Yep. Shoulder's still a bit sore, though. But that's probably what happens when you almost have to have it amputated."

Paul frowned, moving John's hand away from the sling. "You can move your hand though, right?"

John nodded again, clenching and unclenching his fist with only a bit of the stiffness from earlier that he still hadn't recovered from. He tried not to think about how terrified he'd been when he learnt he might've not been able to use his arm again. But his doctor had said the feeling would come back slowly, over the course of a day or two, and sure enough, most of it had.

"Don't fret, Johnny boy. Soon enough you'll be playing terrible music with the rest of us again."' Paul said, as if reading his mind. John wanted to give a snarky reply, he really did. But the truth was weighing down on him again. America was over, and it was all because of him. They'd been planning it out for so long, they were all so excited. All the rehearsals, all the countless hours talking about what it'd be like, and dreaming about thescreaming girls and the money and the fans. All of it, down the drain. Just like that.

"Just not in America," John blurted out, not really regretting it. There was silence for a while, in which Paul didn't deny or accept the statement. After a moment or two, John took a breath and spoke up.

"I was thinking, Macca..." He started seriously, looking right at Paul. Paul looked a little suspicious, but gave him an encouraging nod

Maybe the three of you should just go on with the tour."

A strangely tense silence settled around the two friends as soon as the words left John's mouth. Paul gaped at him, as if trying to digest what he'd just said. Then laughed disbelievingly, straightening up.

"I'm sorry, it sounded like you just told me to go on tour without you" He said. The smile disappeared and he gave John a hard look "But I must've heard you wrong, because I think you know that there's no way in hell that will _ever _happen.''

"No, you heard right.' John said firmly. Paul's frown deepened, but John pushed on. Might as well get it over with, he thought

'Look, Paul. Brian's right, there's no point canceling the tour because of this," He used his good arm to gesture to the casts and wires that they had him hooked up to. "It'll ruin everything you've worked for." Okay, so maybe that wasn't the only reason, and John knew it, though he'd probably never say it out loud. But John Lennon didn't want to disappoint his mates.

"John. You bloody idiot!" Paul said in an angry whisper, and John rolled his eyes. Of course Paul was going to argue

"I'm not the only one who's been working me fucking ass off for this! We've been preparing for _years _to be where we are now, and you're telling me to go on without you?"

"Bloody hell, Paul!' John cried a little too loudly, then dropped his voice to check if George and Ringo were still asleep. Paul was looking at him, those puppy-dog eyes stuck in a fit of perpetual childlike haze filled with determination and something else. John sighed, figuring out the fear in his eyes, and continued. "Look, we've _all_ been looking forward to this for ages. And just 'cause I'm out of the game doesn't mean the whole lot of have to be." He said softly, and Paul finally understood what was going on.

John Lennon was being selfless

"You listen to me" Paul said firmly, though still keeping a gentle edge to his voice. "We're not out of the game, and neither are you. This is just a little bump in the road. Like I said, before you know it, you'll be better, and we'll be touring again. You and I both know that when they say a few months, they really only mean a few weeks."

John looked away but Paul pressed on, determined not to let his friend feel guilty for something that wasn't his fault even in the slightest. "This isn't your doing, okay? So don't you go blaming yourself for this. Nobody could've prevented it. We were all feeling like crap yesterday, and I suppose it's best that you be the one to take the brunt of the fall, er, literally. Why? Because you're probably the only person I know who can break half a dozen bones and not shed a tear. You're the only one who could stand this. Rings would prolly just flat out quit, George would never tour again, God, even I would want to give it all up and go home. But you're John Lennon. You, I know, are just going to bounce right back up in no time"

John looked back at him, wondering when the hell the boy he'd met in Liverpool had learned to read him so well. Paul nodded at him, picking up his notebook once again.

"Thanks Paul."' John said, quietly but sincerely.

Paul grinned. "It just wouldn't be the Beatles without you, mate. Wouldn't be as much fun."

"It's Lennon/ McCartney for a reason, eh?" John mused, putting extra  
emphasis on 'Lennon'.

Paul swatted his good leg with his notebook, laughing. "Don't be cheeky, you git. The only reason it's in that order is because of the alphabet!"

"And here's me thinking it's 'cos of my stunning looks and remarkable talent," John shot back with a shake of his head.

"You do have a nice rack"

"I'd hit you if I could move, just know that!" John shot back. Soon enough, both of them ended up laughing uncontrollably, just like old times, before this craziness known as 'Beatlemania', when they could walk to each other's houses and play all day without the fear of the other getting attacked by a rabid fangirl. Ringo chucked a cushion at them and told them to quiet down while George fell off the sofa trying to see what was going on. Soon, all of them were trying to control their laughter in case they got in trouble with the uptight nurses for waking up the other patients.

But right then, something neither of them could've ever expected happened. Because mere minutes after they began laughing, in that small little hospital room, John Lennon slumped in his bed, unconscious, his heart monitor reading nothing but a flat line, and the sound of oncoming death ringing in his friends ears.


	6. Chapter 6

**Oh HAI! I bring le updates, TWO chapters :D :D aren't you just a lucky sheep today?**

**Anyways, THANK YOU SO MUCH BLUE OMG I SHUDDER TO THINK WHAT UTTER SHIT I'D BE POSTING IF YOU WEREN'T MY BETA :D**

**Ooh, ooh, and I added some dialogue, and I remembered to use " instead of '. Aren't you proud of me? :P**

**Thank you everyone so much for your amazing revies, and don't forget to review these chapters too and tell me what you think, I really appreciate all of it. Enjoy :)**

* * *

Paul stood up from his chair next to John's bed so fast it fell back with a loud crash. The sound fell on deaf ears, however, as George and Ringo shot up from the couch, all their drowsiness from just recently waking up completely gone

"John? John wake up mate, fuck!" Paul cried desperately, slapping John's suddenly alarmingly pale face a little harder than necessary in panic.

"He's not breathing!" Ringo shouted, even though that was obvious. His blue eyes were wide with fright as he ran a hand through his hair, looking around desperately as if waiting for help to come through the walls.

Mal suddenly burst in, looking apprehensive.

"What is with all the commotion?"

"Mal, he..John's not breathing! Get help!" George shouted, running towards the door himself too and nearly bowling over Mal. Paul and Ringo continued to try and rouse John, both of them close to tears and barely holding it together

"Johnny, fucking hell, John wake up!" Paul shouted, shaking him violently, but got no response. John just remained deathly still, flopping around as Paul shook him.

"This can't be happening, JOHN, YOU NEED TO WAKE UP, YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO US!" Ringo bellowed, almost angrily.

Paul was a bit taken aback and felt his own panic overtake him as the normally mild mannered drummer continued to try and rouse John, tears streaming down his face. He could hear Mal and George yelling from out in the hallway.

"Where the FUCK are the doctors in this place?" He yelled at the door. His best mate could be dying, and those bloody idiots were nowhere in sight!

As if on cue, a team of doctors and nurses flooded into the room, barking out orders and dragging Paul and Ringo away from John's bed.

Paul struggled wildly against the short nurse who had a death grip on his arm, saying something he wasn't registering while forcing him towards the door.

"No, NO! Tell me what's wrong, whats happening to him?" He yelled, trying to dig his feet into the ground to stop the nurse but to no avail. He couldn't even see John now, he was completely surrounded by doctors and nurses, and Paul was getting frantic.

"Goddamit, I can't leave, let me go!" Paul started flailing about trying to get free from the nurses grip and see John. He caught a glimpse of a doctor injecting something into John's stomach and a wide eyed Ringo letting himself be led away.

"NO, NO! LET ME IN, LET ME SEE HIM!" he frantically twisted the door knob, but it was locked

"Paul. Paul stop it" He heard neil say and a hand gently grabbed his shoulder, but he shook it off and ignored him.

"FUCKING. LET. ME. SEE. MY. FRIEND GODDAMMIT!" Pauls voice was raw and high now as he wildly continued to struggle with the door, sounding like he was both going to burst into tears or hit someone if they didn't let him in

"Paul c'mon mate stop it!" Again, Paul ignored George's shaky plea. He could see memories of John flashing before him. His heart was pounding and he felt like he'd just injected himself with a gallon of adrenaline.

He felt strong arms grab him around the waist and pull him away from the door, and he went absolutely ballistic, his vision outlined with red.

"LET ME GO GODDAMIT I NEED TO SEE JOHN!" he screamed hoarsely but Mal just held his arms in place.

"Calm down, Paul, and I'll let you go" Mal said in his calm, deep voice, but it only made Paul angrier.

"I WILL NOT BLOODY CALM DOWN YOU FUCKER LET ME GO!"

When Mal still didn't let go, Paul let out an animalistic scream and started kicking out wildly.

How could they not understand? He had to see him! John could be dying, and instead of letting him be there with him they'd locked him out of the fucking room and Mal wouldn't fucking let him go!

"YOU USELESS HULK YOU WORK FOR ME! I'LL HAVE YOU FIRED, DO YOU HEAR ME?' YOU'RE FIRED!"

Mal just held him steady until he finally stopped struggling after a while, realising it was no use. George and Ringo looked as miserable as he felt and he was just making it worse.

"Just-just put me down, Mal" He said weakly, his voice hoarse from all the shouting. Mal seemed to get that Paul had calmed down and gently set him down. Paul whimpered and hung onto his arm as his head spun slightly, and Mal just silently held him up, gently rubbing his arm as paul tried to hold back tears.

A nurse came out of the room at that very moment, adressing them all briskly.

"Who is Mr. Lennons medical proxy?"

She was just met with five confused and frightened faces. Paul kept trying to look around her into John's room.

"His what?" Neil asked. To everyone's surprise, Ringo answered.

"The person in charge of John's medical decisions"

"Does he even have one?" George asked in a panicked voice.

"Boys?" Everybody looked around to see a deathly pale Brian running towards them.

"Brian'll know!"

"Mr. Epstien, who is Mr. Lennons medical proxy?" she asked urgently once brian had reached them.

"I am, I am" Brian wheezed out, completely out of breath. "What's going on, what's wrong with john?"

"He's gone into sudden cardiac arrest, sir. We need your approval to administer CPR, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation. It's a relatively new technique that's not clinically proven to work, but the tests have been remarkably positive-"

"DO IT!" Paul, George, and Ringo shouted.

Brian shook his head as if to bring himself back to reality, even paler than before "Yes, yes, do it!"

'Wait will he be okay?" Paul asked before she could go back nurse gave a tight smile. "Sorry, sir. But at this point in time, we're just trying to get him out of this alive." She disappeared, shutting the door tightly behind her.

"What's wrong with John?" George asked. "What's cardiac arrest?"

"It's when your heart stops beating without warning," Ringo explained. "A couple-a kids in my wing of the hospital had it happen to them when I was in when I was a kid."

"Did they live?"

Ringo shook his head after a moment's hesitation, rapidly blinking his eyes. "Couldn't get their heart up again in time. A lotta them had brain damage."

Paul had sank into a chair with his head in his hands. His usually clean and well-kept moptop was now sticking up in places, his clothes rumpled and his hands shaking.

"Holy fuck..." George choked out, blinking back tears as he shakily backed up and slid down the wall opposite to John's room onto the floor. Ringo and Paul immediately joined him, Ringo's blue eyes bright with fear and uncertainty.

They all knew that on the opposite side of the wall, John was undergoing surgerytreatment that, depending on the skills of the doctors, could either kill him or save him.

They prayed for the latter.

Brian swallowed roughly, his heart hammering and his mouth completely dry.

"What happened?" He asked, surprised at how his voice sounded as calm as it usually did, even though he felt like he would start losing it any second now.

George and Ringo stayed quiet, and much to Brian's surprise, it was Paul who answered, in a voice that was so weak and feeble it seemed impossible that it was the same person who was just screaming and thrashing about like a madman a minute before.

"We were talking... about nothing special... and fuck, God, Eppy, he just... slumped over and- and- and-..."

Paul's voice started shaking so Brian decided to let it go. His mind was still reeling from how quickly everything had happened and that John might be dying at this very..no, no! He quickly shook the thought out of his head, his concern for his boys pushing him into action.

"Now let's not worry. I'm sure John will be just fine, they have very capable doctors here. Er... Mal!"

A very pale Mal jumped at Brian's sudden command.

"Ask a nurse to get a more secure room for the boys to wait in."

Mal nodded shakily, and went off down the hallway to do as Brian asked, patting Paul's shoulder when he gave him an apologetic look.

"And Mal- Mal!" Brian called again "Make sure they have enough security so they're not bothered till they get there!"

"Got it!" Their roadie called back without stopping or turning around, quickly disappearing around the corner.

Brian turned towards the boys, who were silently leaning against each other, Ringo whispering something to a distraught Paul.

"Look, boys-"

Paul looked up with big brown eyes that pierced Brian's heart. "Don't Eppy. Just don't" Paul said in a hoarse whisper. "We're not stupid."

Brian gave a small nod "Then there's nothing else I can say." He said sadly, wishing he could do something to make them feel better.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi! skip right to this update? Well skip on back a chapter, cuz I put up two chapters. Yes, TWO. TWO WHOLE CHAPTERS jdbhdebhjd love me.**

**So Holy Moley so this is by far the longest chapter I've ever written. Ever. And I love this so, so much, this chapter is mine and Bluetruth's baby, we worked so hard on it. A LOT of angsty Paulie in this one ;)**

After John had been transferred to the ICU, George had voulenteered to take Paul back to the hotel. Ringo had agreed, knowing Paul was a right mess and needed to sleep. He would've gone with them, but he knew George would have better luck taking care of Paul, considering they'd known each other since elementary school. Besides, he felt like he needed to stay with Brian, who was barely holding it together, even though he was stubbornly denying it for their sakes.

It was obvious though, despite their managers efforts, that the slightest mistake of the doctors could screw everything up. It was a possibility that was becoming more and more likely with every passing minute, The only thing they knew right now was that it was a combination of stress and excessive smoking that caused the cardiac arrest, but other than that, there had been no word on the condition of the first half of Lennon/McCartney.

_**At the hotel**_

George rubbed his sopping wet hair with the fluffy hotel towel, shivering slightly as the air conditioning hit his bare skin as he stepped out of the warm, steamy bathroom. The rising sun was weakly shining through the window, and the clock read 7:08. Feeling decidedly more relaxed after his shower, George quickly slipped into the same dress shirt and pants from yesterday, (their luggage still wasn't there yet), dropped the towel onto the floor and strode over to Paul's room, wondering if he'd actually gone to sleep like he said he would. Prolly not, George thought. The way he was acting back at the hospital... There's more of a chance of Brian letting us all get crew cuts.

And predictabley, Paul was indeed awake, sitting hunched over on the desk in his room adjacent to the door and blankly staring at a piece of paper, twirling his pen in his left hand. George crept closer, feeling a twinge of worry when he saw the angry blue lines slashed onto the paper.

"Paul, mate, you need to sleep," He said gently, stopping a little distance away from Paul.

"Go away, George." Paul said shortly, starting a bit and crumpling up the piece of paper angrily throwing it aside. George noted the faint blue scratches on the table, and swallowed a bit before speaking again.

"Just-"

"George I mean it. Just... Just fucking leave." Paul said quietly. "Please." he added, his voice cracking, carefully avoiding George's eyes by staring at the empty desk in front of him.

The "please," nearly got to George and he almost turned around and left Paul to wallow in his misery, but he knew he couldn't. Now that George thought about it, Paul hadn't slept since before they left for New York, which made it a grand total of 2 nights without any sleep. And what with all that had happened, he needed to get some sleep to get his head on straight. Stewing in his own thoughts as exhausted as he was would do nothing for anybody, except maybe make him go a little crazier.

"I'm just worried bout you," George muttered, trying to let his sincerity show. He winced slightly as Paul turned his face to look at him, and he caught a glimpse of the dark purple bags under Paul's eyes, illuminated by the morning sun.

"I'm fine." Paul hissed in a clipped tone, suggesting the exact opposite. He suddenly stood up and pushed past the guitarist, who was still trying to talk some sense into his friend.

"No, Paul. You haven't slept all night, and with what's been up with John, well, you're not fine." George insisted. Paul stopped dead, rubbing at his eye with the palm of his hand leaned against the door frame but didn't turn around.

"Just let it go, George," Paul whispered. His eyes were glued to a painting in the room beyond of some U.S. President that Paul hadn't heard of and didn't care to know any more about.

"Just a couple of hours, Paulie," George pleaded. "That's all. And then you can spend all the time you want with John, at the hospital. Okay?"

Something inside Paul snapped. He didn't know whether it was from exhaustion, or of his own sane mind, or just being fed up with everything. But he remembered John saying those exact words to him ('Just a couple of hours, Paulie, alright? Sleep. Y'know. Bed, and pillows, and blankets, and all that.') a couple months ago when he'd been vomiting up everything he'd ever eaten and more but still wanted to stay up and write. But after he said 'Paulie' his blood ran cold and he widened his eyes in fury.

He whipped around and bolted back to George, shoving him over the chair where he had been sitting. The guitarist toppled over the edge and fell to the ground with a loud thud.

"Don't you fucking tell me what to do!" Paul screeched rounding on George with a outraged expression on his face.

"The fuck, Paul!" George yelled, holding his arms in front of him like a shield as he popped back up, hair sticking up and brushed the wrong way, but otherwise unharmed.

Paul tackled him, fury running through his veins like a red-hot river, redness clouding his mind and vision. He pounded George, dealing punch after punch to his friend.

"Don't-" Punch. "You-" Punch. "Fucking-" Punch. "Act-" Punch. "Like-" Punch. "It's all-" Punch. "Fucking-" Punch. "Okay!"

George had been in enough fights to know how to fight back, which he did. He lifted his legs around Paul's neck and brought him down, therefore enabling him to, after a brief tussle on the ground, sit on Paul's stomach and pin his arms down.

"FUCKING LET ME GO!" Paul roared, twisting and bucking as hard as he could.

"Paul..Ah!" George flinched as Paul brought his wrist to his mouth and bit down hard. He didn't let go, though. "Paul, Paul! Fucking listen to me, dammit!"

He didn't stop struggling, and when Paul bit down harder on George's wrist he instinctively brought his hand away, and Paul used his free hand to bring his fist across George's cheek.

George fell to the ground, only to have Paul hoist him up and continue pounding him, connecting a solid punch to his right eye.

"Don't fucking tell me that everything will be all jolly good and John'll be fine and we'll all be able to live happily ever after with no problems whatsoever after he wakes up!" If he wakes up, Paul thought, but quickly pushed the idea out of his head. He had to wake up. He had to.

"I can't bloody stand to hear that right now. It's fucking useless, and it's the same fucking junk that they spouted at me when-" His voice hitched in a sob he choked back down. His voice was steadily growing higher, as he continued hysterically. "When she died, when you and I and everybody else in this goddamn country and probably the world by now knows that there's nothing, absolutely nothing they can ever do to make them good again!" He threw another punch at George's other eye, but he ducked and managed to avoid it, still stunned at what his best friend was doing and saying."

Paul was breathing heavily, practically panting as he continued to yell as he aimed more weak hits at George.

"George," Paul whispered, suddenly collapsing in a heap on the ground, biting his lip to make sure he wouldn't burst into tears like a bird. "What if- what if he doesn't wake up? Christ, I can't- I can't."

"He'll wake up," George said, trying to sound confident despite his trembling voice.

"You don't know that," Paul choked out. "You _don't know_ that."

"No, I don't, but Paul..." He trailed off, not really knowing what to think.

"What." Not a question. A cold, short, bitter word.

George blinked, the throbbing pain in his eye making it hard to think straight. Paul was just looking at him now, panic still clearly evident in his eyes and apparently daring George to say something to contradict him and at the same time, pleading with him to say something to make it all better.

"He got really lucky, Paul."

Paul stood up abruptly and growled. He grabbed a white coffee cup and chucked against the opposite wall, causing George to flinch and wince as the hot liquid inside scalded his skin. He didn't bother getting up from the floor, knowing it'd be no use. Whatever Paul was going to do, George knew from experience that in the rare occasion when he got like this, it was best to let it run its course. Trying to help would only make it worse.

"Have you lost your fucking mind? He just broke a shit load of bones and almost died 'cause his heart stopped fucking beating, and he's goddamned lucky?' Paul hollered, bending down and lifting George by the collar, completely ignoring the flash of hurt that flickered in his mate's brown eyes.

He dropped him again, tossing him to the floor like the towel he had used earlier, and George stayed down, using his shaking elbows to prop himself up as Paul started pacing, covering his face with his hands.

"What if he's paralyzed, huh?" The bassist demanded as he stopped across the room, running a hand through his hair and looking at George, who wisely didn't answer, knowing Paul didn't really want an answer. He wasn't angry at what he said, he was more angry at the situation and needed to hit something. And George happened to be the best thing at the moment.

"What if he has brain damage? Would you call that lucky? What if he- what if he can't sing or play or... or any of the shit that quack said he's probably going to get?" He said, his voice steadily dropping, mainly just talking to himself now. He abruptly stopped pacing, staring at his hands as George saw him visibly deflate. His facial features went limp, and when he spoke up again, it came out as a choked whisper.

"And fuck. I'm not going to be able to fucking do anything, and if he dies or something goes wrong with whatever the fuck their doing, I'm not going to know right away and I'm not going to know and I can't do anything. This isn't a goddamned song or something, it's his fucking life and I can't do anything and if he dies I can't- Jesus Christ, George, I couldn't- I can't..." And there it was, almost an admission to himself. His voice was empty, cold. He fell back on the carpet, rubbing his eyes and letting exhaustion run over him.

Completely, utterly, and entirely defeated.

"He's lucky to be alive," George spoke up, knowing that Paul needed to hear what he had to say. Paul gave a bitter, sarcastic laugh but George pressed on anyway.

"Just... just listen, Paul. If John hadn't fallen at the hotel, he wouldn't have gone to the hospital, would he?" Paul gave him an annoyed look and didn't say a thing.

"We would've been here, at the hotel, when he had his cardiac arrest. You heard the doctor, it was a matter of when, not if." He said softly, and realization flickered across Paul's face as his eyes widened.

"We all would've been asleep," He croaked looking completely torn. George nodded, feeling a lump in his throat and tears prick his eyes. But he swallowed them down and continued.

"Including John. We might not ever have noticed, Paul, he-" He stopped, the thought making his blood run cold. "He could've died in his sleep, Paul."

If Paul had felt defeated before, he felt universally empty now. There was none of the light or joy or optimism in the usually bright eyes of the bassist.

"Christ." Paul whimpered. George was right. It was all he could imagine, them waking up and shouting for John to join them, not really worrying when he didn't show up. He wasn't an early riser at all. And them going in to do the technique of jumping on him or tickling him or whatever, and only panicking when he didn't flinch, and then realizing something was wrong and them yelling and trying to imitate the movies and the telly to check for a pulse and whatnot, and then realizing what had happened and trying to wake him up... just imagining the picture of a cold, dead, John Lennon was enough to make the taste of pennies rise up in Paul's throat and his stomach churn.

"And it was lucky you were awake and talking to him, too, yeah? If you hadn't been talking me and Rings wouldn't have woken up either, and god knows when someone would've walked in and found out."

Paul gulped and nodded, which encouraged George to go on.

"So if he can't sing or play or whatever, he'll always be a Beatle, yeah? Always be our mate, and- and he'll always be John. He'll be alive and he'll be with us... isn't that the most important thing?"

Paul nodded weakly, his eyes tearing up again even as he stubbornly tried to stop them. It didn't work, and he put his head in his hands as the sobs made the lump in his throat slowly dissolve.

"You're right.. Fucking hell Georgie..." He said looking up through red and blurry eyes to examine exactly what he'd done. George's left eye was already red and starting to swell up, and there was a very painful looking scrape above his eyebrow.

"Christ, I'm so sorry"

"Yeah, I get it. I'll give you a pass this time" George gave his friend a weak smile, then nodded towards the bed "Now, go sleep. I mean it."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

Paul's eyes fell to the ground and he shrugged. George crawled over to his side and sat down

"Paulie?" George poked Paul's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

His friend sighed and mumbled something that sounded a lot like, "I kans leapbe cos hemiight... y'know whenI'm noat tahtre nd' I wonud noow rig awhy."

George had gotten pretty used to understanding thick accents even in the most intoxicated state, but he had no way at all in deciphering the low, jumbled Liverpudlian accent. "Er, what?"

Paul glared at him and shook his head.

"No, tell me."

Paul gave him an annoyed look but sighed and said, much slower but not much louder: "I can't sleep because he might... y'know when I'm not there and I wouldn't know right away."

"Die?"

Paul flinched at his words, but George had prepared himself so when Paul gave him the coldest glare on earth he didn't tear his gaze away.

"Mhm."

"He's not gonna die, Paul."

"You don't know that."

"I know. We've been over this already. But when have you ever known John to stop fighting?"

Paul searched every memory of John to prove George wrong, but he came up empty handed. When he didn't answer, George spoke again.

"So why would he start stop fighting now?"

Paul shrugged, but George knew he had hit a nerve. "Look, Paul. You know John better then any of us- and don't deny it, 'cos it's true. But listen, mate, he's not gonna stop fighting yet." George swallowed. "He's got a whole lot a shit to clean up before he goes, you know. He's not gonna let something silly like his heart stopping prevent him from coming back."

Paul lifted his hand and started chewing on his thumb, a habit he couldn't seem to break. "Look. He's gonna have to have something a helluva lot more worse then his heart fucking stopping before he goes for sure."

"What could be worse than that?"

George shrugged. "I dunno, really. Being shot would be a bummer. But I guess a good bop to your chest or summat'll do 'im off."

Paul shoved his shoulder gently, and George asked once more, "Please, Paul? Sleep?"

Paul looked back up at him, looking doubtful. "You'll wake me up if the phone rings?"

"I'll wake you up before I answer it."

Paul closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "Mmkay. But I swear if you don't-"

"I will, Paul. Swear on it."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

"Swear on me mother's grave."

"I swear on your mother's grave."

"Now swear on our graves."

"We don't have graves."

"Not yet, anyway," Paul chewed the inside of his cheek. "'Ey, what about the concerts after this? We're supposed to be in Atlanta by now, right?"

"Paul," George sighed. "We'll ask Eppy once you and I trade places with Ringo and him."

"Which will be...?"

"Whenever you wake up. Now go." He said shortly, getting to his feet and giving his friend a hand, which he took.

Paul failed in stifling a yawn. "Fine. 'Night, George. Wake me up in an hour, whether the phone rings or not."

George made a noncommittal sound in his throat, but Paul seemed happy enough with that, and suddenly pulled George into a tight hug.

George was startled for a moment, but then hugged him back, relishing the comfort it gave him.

Paul tried to put everything he felt into that hug, how thankful he was, how sorry he was for hurting him. He knew George felt just the way he did, John was his mate too after all, but here he was letting him beat him up even though he was perfectly capable of fighting back, listen to him yell and basically just lose his shit, and then comforting him and making sure he got to sleep. It was hard to believe sometimes that Georgie was the youngest of the group, given he could be so sensible and they all tended to use him as an emotional crutch at times.

When they finally broke apart, George gave him a grateful smile and a nod. Satisfied that George understood, just like he always did, Paul silently smiled back, then turned over to his bed as George left the room, closing the door behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

**PEOPLE I IS BACK. Thank you so much for the reviews, I love them all, and enjoy :DDD**

* * *

There was a long, slender, crooked crack on the wall. A flap of the chipped paint on the bottom was hanging off.

Ringo Starr had been staring at that same flap for what seemed like forever. He had lost track of time ages ago, and had been relatively content to sit here and wallow in his memories and ponderings. Or, at content as one could be when one of your best friends was lying half-dead-half-zombie down the hallway, with absolutely no news on his condition.

Sighing, Ringo pushed those thoughts out of his head, and tried thinking of something else. The pipe behind the wall made a noise, as someone above him had just flushed a toilet. He didn't really think putting a waiting room below a bathroom with _really _noisy pipes was a great idea, but as he wasn't an architect and didn't really think it was that important, he didn't particularly know why he was thinking these thoughts.

However, the sound of rushing water had brought the idea of a shower into his mind, making him realize how much he wanted one right that second. He was still in the same rumpled and slightly smelly clothes from before John's heart stopped. From the reflection of the darkened window outside, tinted dark blue from the rising sun, he could see his hair sticking up in a hundred different directions. _Come to think of it, _Ringo thought, giving himself a half-smile. _I look more like a porcupine than a Beatle. _

What he wouldn't give for a shower right now. He hadn't had one since before they'd left for New York, which made his skin crawl and his scalp itch.

But Ringo couldn't be bothered enough to get off the dusty floor. He felt like sitting there forever, not even moving to a chair, just drowning in his self pity. He couldn't help but feel a pang of betrayal, at how Paul and George had each other in that comfortable hotel room and he was left alone here in this goddamned hospital. _But it's not as if they abandoned me_, he tried to reason with himself. _Paul was a mess and I forced George to go with him._ _Both of them had to stay further away from John_.

But a strange, irrational part of him still loathed the two of them for it, as ashamed as he was of the thought.

That same irrational part of him was somewhat angry at John for doing this to him. For making him feel this awful feeling and not being there to make him feel better. Cracking more than a few inappropriate jokes, yelling at all the wrong people. It was strangely comforting, just knowing John was there to give everybody hell as his way of making people feel better.

He knew if it was switched, that if Paul or George or even Ringo himself had fallen off the balcony, that John would be doing that exact thing, pranking and being an overall idiot, doing things like telling rambling stories that led to nothing, or just being John, really. It seemed a helluva lot different now, without that.

Fighting back the tears pricking at his eyes, Ringo sighed and leaned further down the wall. He couldn't help but wonder if everybody felt this way, thinking quite mean and irrational thoughts about their best mates.

There was a little black spider on the crack now, crawling across it. Ringo could see the slight sheen of it's web in the corner of the room, and the line of silk that attached the two.

What if it was always this way from now on? What if John didn't wake up, or if he did and wasn't the same? What if he was afraid of people more important than him now? That instead of just laughing and telling them to fuck off, the guitarist would just do as he was told? The thought scared him more than anything, and the lump in his throat was impossibly big now. Ringo let a tear fall, angrily swiping it away as the spider continued to crawl.

If John really wasn't okay, then what? He was probably the one person who could comfort Ringo as an equal. Not many people had seen the true, caring John Lennon that only shone through on rare occasions, that maybe only eight people in the world got to see.

Ringo felt privileged to be one of those people. To be counted as one of John's best mates, deemed trustworthy enough to act however he liked, not having to hide in his shell around him.

Without John, there'd be none of those jokes or pranks or conversations that they all treasured.

Ringo's heart lurched at the memory of Paul falling off the stage and busting up his knee. John had freaked out more than Ringo'd ever seen before. Screaming at the medics, calling Brian a cunt, snapping at anybody who tried to suggest something that involved touching Paul's knee. Paul, meanwhile, had apparently been in too much pain to notice this, but Ringo definitely remembered the expression on John's face as he raved and ranted and cursed at anybody who got in his way.

Pushing back the bittersweet memory, Ringo let the myriad of tears fall down, wondering when the nurses were going to come and give him the news.

* * *

**_RINGRINGRING._**

George jumped, his heart nearly stopping _(alright, George, note to self: Choose better wording.) _when the shrill ring shrieked through the house. Rubbing his eyes, he jumped off the couch and cursed himself for falling asleep. How long had they been trying to reach them? But surely he would have woken up before, then, wouldn't he?

_**RINGRINGRING**._

He realized it had to be the main phone and ran out of his room, both afraid and anxious. _It must be somebody with news about John,_ he thought. _Nobody knows the hotel number._

In the hallway, George caught sight of the clock, which read 10:30. Heading towards the main room, George realized he'd been asleep for around three hours which meant-

"I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU, HARRISON!_" _

Oh _shit._ He hadn't woken up Paul, and judging by the screech that had just come from his room, he was pissed beyond words. George ran around like a chicken without a head, trying to find the still loudly ringing phone, but the noise just seemed to echo and he couldn't see the source anywhere. Paul burst out of his room, wearing nothing but pants and a pair of socks. Eyes blazing, he charged towards George and smacked him on the head with one of his Beatle boots.

"GEORGE, YOU CUNT! YOU FUCKING PROMISED-"

"Ow!" George yelled, rubbing his already bruised head and ducking out of the way of more blows. "I'm sorry, I-"

"You said you'd wake me up!" Paul hissed, chucking the shoe at George's head. Thankfully, Paul never had had the best aim, and missed by a mile.

"I'm _sorry, _Paul, but I fell-"

_"_Where's the phone?_" _Paul shouted, ignoring George's half-hearted apology.

"IF I KNEW, WE WOULDN'T BE HAVING THIS CONVERSATION!" George shouted even louder, shooting Paul an annoyed glare. "NOW SHUT THE FUCK UP AND HELP ME FIND IT."

Both of them ran into opposite directions; George towards the dining area where the noise seemed to be getting louder, and Paul towards the living room where the telly was. He burst into the spacious kitchen and finally spotted the wall phone, ringing like mad.

"FOUND IT!" George yelled victoriously, hesitating before picking it up. _Don't let John be dead. Don't let John be dead. Please please please don't let John be dead. _

"Hello?" He said tentatively, nervously chewing his lower lip. The words from before running like a mantra through his head.

There were some faint noises on the other side, like someone shifting around. George frowned, confused.

"'Ello? Rings? Brian?" There was silence.

And then giggles.

Excited, muffled.. female giggles. "OH MY GOD, YOU'RE GEORGE HARRISON. WILL YOU MARRY ME? I'M YOUR BIGGEST-" George's blood boiled at the sound.

George growled and slammed the phone back before he said something he would regret later.

He rubbed at his tired eyes angrily. Dropping his hands, he turned around, feeling like he would explode from the avalanche of emotions running through him.

"WHY THE FUCK DID YOU HANG UP?" Paul roared as he moved for the phone.

George sat down on a chair. "YOU'D THINK THEY'D HAVE THE FUCKING DECENCY TO LEAVE US ALONE AT LEAST RIGHT NOW!" He yelled to a wide eyed Paul, pointing angrily at the phone, who's eyes went wide with understanding and wisely stayed quiet. "FUCKING STUPID LITTLE-"

The phone rung again suddenly, making them both jump. Paul's eyes went wide with fury and he snatched up the phone before George could blink and eye.

"Why _hello, _you annoying little shits. How are you on this fucking wonderful morning?" He said in a disgusted falsetto, fully intending to annoy and mess with the fans on the other side. He didn't care _what _Brian would say.

What he least expected was a very deep, very familiar, and _very _anxious voice to reply. His eyes widened and George cocked an eyebrow in curiosity. Anger was still pulsing through his veins.

Paul put his hand over the phone after a moment and turned to George, a strangely unreadable expression on his face. "He's awake. John's awake!"

* * *

**I know I know ANOTHER cliffhanger, I'm sorry :P next update coming really soon though, so..yeah :P REVIEW, MY MINIONS. REVIEW.**

**AND ONCE AGAIN, THANK YOU SO MUCH BLUE HBWDHBDAHBAUCURGH**


	9. Chapter 9

**HI GUYS! DID YA MISS ME? NO? OK :(**

**ANYWAYS NO MORE TEASING THIS TIME! :D HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT AND REVIIEEWWWW I BARELY GOT ANY LAST TIME AND IT WAS REALLY DISHEARTENING BUT THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO DID REVIEW, AND THANK YOU TO BLUE, AS USUAL :D (YOU DIDN'T REVIEW LAST TIME! *GRUMPY PAUL FACE*) and holy fuck uhwbfshf this is chapter NINE! :O**

**Enjoy! and review! :P**

* * *

"I was dead, y'know," John Lennon drawled lazily, inspecting his nails nonchalantly, as if nothing had happened when the three of them practically fell into his room in their haste. His eyes flickered up and connected with Paul's, who of course saw instantly the terror disguised by the casual tone. "In case nobody told you."

His gaze never left Paul's eyes, and Paul didn't break it. They were communicating silently, as they always did, having whole conversations in a few seconds that usually said more than when they had all the time in the world to speak. Usually, neither of them had to try to get a point across, but this time Paul tried to convey through his look that it would be okay, that he was here, that they were _all _here now, and he'd do whatever it would take for him to feel better.

John must have understood, because at the next moment he broke the gaze and grinned at everyone. It was a halfhearted attempt, and his eyes were shiny, puffy, and bright red, but it was there. It was _John, _living and breathing and now smiling and talking. _John, _who they had all spent countless hours worrying for, shed countless tears for, and pictured every possible grim scenario for. It was _John, _who was _back, _his heart _beating _and _breathing, _and _alive. _John was _alive. _Something that just a few minutes ago was something that could have easily never happened again.

Nobody hesitated. In a split second, John had three pairs of arms wrapped around him, each clutching onto him with different strengths. There was Ringo, who was gentle and tentative, but still firm; George, who was light as air and of which John could only feel the ghost of his fingers on his back through the thin hospital gown. And then there was Paul, who was hugging him tightest of all, gripping his neck like he was going to slip away, his hair tickling his face. It was quite possibly the most awkward group hug in the history of forever, with two of them trying not to hurt him and the other clutching him like he was superglued. John was still lying down, and could still only use one arm, but he felt a wave of relief wash over him. It was the most at ease he'd felt since he'd woken up a little while ago. For the rest of them, this was the most at ease they'd been since John's heart stopped.

"Fucking _queers!" _John cackled, his voice trembling with a strangled laugh, squeezing George's shoulder tighter with his good arm. They all laughed, but didn't let go, not quite ready to give up their recently-brought-back-from-the-dead-best-friend. They stayed like that for an unmeasurable amount of time, at one point breaking out in hysterical laughter just _because_. When they did let go, Paul, George, and Ringo all had tears running down their faces, but none of them bothered to wipe them away. It felt _so fucking good _just to have him back. To be able to touch him and feel warmth, not feel cold, dead-person skin. To see him laugh and grin and talk with that thick Scouse accent they all knew so well. Even being insulted by him didn't matter so much, because just the fact that he _could _warmed their hearts. Because, even though not a single one of them would admit it, John was the one who kept them all together, who started the band, who was the link between the three pieces. Their leader, their best friend and worst enemy and person-you-literally-can't-live-without. And now he was back. They listened to him speak, enjoying the edgy voice that was always laced with that slight bitterness that they hadn't heard in far too long.

* * *

They all sat on the floor next to the his bed so they could look him in the eye. Apparently, John couldn't sit up _just _yet, as he was still incredibly weak, no matter how hard he tried to deny it. He _hated _this, of course, just like he had hated everything that had happened until now since he had woken up. Feeling cold shivers run down his spine, John looked back to George, who was talking about the fans that had attacked them, and ignored the strange look that Paul was trying to get his attention with.

"Hari, what happened to your _face?" _John asked abruptly. Ringo smirked, and Paul flushed in embarrassment. "It's even uglier than usual, if that's possible."

George grinned, brushing the insult aside. "Paul's what happened," He shrugged one shoulder.

John turned to the bassist and raised one eyebrow.

"Pauuuuul, I thought we talked about this. No more redecorating peoples' faces. They've got surgeons for that now," He chided, wondering what else had happened in the time he had been dea- _out. _He quickly corrected himself. Paul picked it up, and jokingly flicked John's nose, trying not to frown.

John sniffled snootily, then looked away, but Paul had already seen that flash in his eyes.

It'd been there for less than a millisecond, gone before he could consciously register it. But it had been there, and it had left him with a very uneasy feeling. What was wrong? Was there something John wasn't telling them?

But that didn't make sense. The doctors were supposed to tell the family or the medical proxy first, so they could decide whether to tell the patient, right? And the three of them were definitely considered family, maybe not by blood, but definitely by soul.

"Y'know, Paul, the creativity just comes _bursting _forth."

Paul looked up at the mention of his name, only to find George giving him a puzzled look. He gave him a quick smile and glanced at Ringo, who was yawning widely, avoiding looking at John.

_You're just being paranoid, _Paul told himself. _You always do that, you've got to stop. _

It was true; Paul was always overanalyzing everything until it because some twisted version of what had really happened. John obviously had to be feeling a bit off, with the nightmare he had just lived through, but he'd be okay in time.

"You'd think the two of 'ye would've waited for me to wake up," John wise-cracked, trying to stifle a yawn. Everybody gulped. Only an hour ago, it had been a matter of _if _John would wake up, not _when. _They hadn't had the luxury of knowing their best mate would _definitely _be waking up.

Ringo stood up, not wanting to keep John awake, and really needing some seriously sleep himself. His eyes felt like they were weighted down, and his muscles were now beginning to ache now that the adrenaline wore off from knowing that John was okay. Besides, the bleak hospital room was bringing back too many unpleasant childhood memories in his exhausted mind.

"Right then. Lads, I'm off. Gonna go get some kip before I pass out right here," He yawned and received three questioning looks as he clapped his hands together. "We should let John get some some rest too," He added pointedly.

"Oh, you don't _have_ to go, 'm not tired" John said casually.

"Nah, you should probably sleep. Doctor's orders," George agreed, taking Ringo's offered hand and dragging himself up. Paul stayed on the floor, not really planning on leaving even if John was going to sleep.

"Who's listening to that quack anyways?"

"You are!" Paul said indignantly. "Or should, anyway."

John snorted. "I think I'll be fine staying up a bit longer, so sit your arses back down." He ordered impatiently.

"We'll be back mate, we're not _going_ anywhere! But you need to sleep so you can get better." Ringo said gently.

"'M fine!" John protested, glaring at Ringo. Paul shook his head at John's stubbornness.

"You _do_ look tired mate..." He chimed in.

"Well I _did_ just _die_ a while back, didn't I?" John shot back scathingly, and Ringo visibly flinched. "Can't I guy get a little leeway from _anything _anymore? I guess not even dyin' is a plausible excuse."

"Don't _say_ it like that!" George hissed angrily, his usually gentle eyes hard and cold. John glared right back, sneering.

"Why? It's the truth, innit? And it's not even _you _who died."

The bitter words left a strange, stifling tension on the room. John just laid his head back and closed his eyes as if nothing was wrong, but all three Beatles gaped at him. So they may not have had much experience with these situations, but wasn't John supposed to be a bit…happier? Or relieved? Paul's earlier fear came rushing back at the sudden bitterness. What the_hell_ was going on? Sure, John wasn't always the easiest person to read but Paul was _positive_ now that something was wrong.

"Why don't you and Rings go back to the hotel? I'll keep him company," Paul said to George, looking back at him.

"I'm not going back to the hotel!" Ringo protested before George could even start. "I'm just gonna crash on the couch."

"Ringo, you smell. Like fish. I don't even know _how_, but you do. Do us all a favor, and go back to the hotel and shower and rest before you keel over." Paul said with as much humor as he could possibly muster up given the situation.

"Or just stay here and talk to _me!_" John piped up, eyes still closed. Nobody said anything, not wanting to upset him again.

"Why can't I just stay here?" Ringo whined, stomping his foot like a little child. Paul gritted his teeth impatiently. George's eyes met his and he gave him a look, silently begging him to understand. They _needed_ to leave! If they stayed, John would just shut everyone out and let whatever was bothering him build up until it all burst out at the worst possible time. If they left, Paul was _sure_ he could talk some sense into his stubborn friend. George broke the look and turned to Ringo nonchalantly.

"He's right Rings, you _do_ need to shower." He said, and Paul sighed quietly in relief. Ringo huffed.

"I can go on me _own_ then, you two stay here."

"Or _all_ of you can stop arguing like little children and haul your arses out of my room!" John snapped angrily, his eyes now open, glaring irritably at them. The sudden change in mood was starting to make everyone a little uneasy. Ringo apparently caught on and quietly said his good-byes to Paul and John. George did the same, but John just gave a little nod, glaring up at the ceiling. Paul gave them a little wave and they were gone, disappearing down the hallway with nothing more than George's fading words of, "Paul's right, you _do _smell like fish. How is that even possible?"

* * *

"You all right?" Paul asked cautiously after a few minutes of John ignoring him. He didn't want to push John, knowing all _that_ would do was make John shut him out completely. That couldn't happen, because something was _clearly bothering the guitarist, and he needed to get it out. Maybe he'd have to pull a George to get him to open up, or yell at him or whatever that needed to happen._

"I'm _fine, _you git," John snapped, though his tone was a lot lighter than before, looking down at his fingers with mild interest. Paul remained quiet.

"You didn't _have_ to stay, you know," John said in a forced casual tone after a moments silence.

"I know."

"So why did you?"

Paul shrugged. "I dunno," He sighed, and sat up against the wall. He added tentatively, "Felt like you might need me."

They sat in silence after that, and Paul didn't push. John's blank face was steadily slipping away, and Paul just subconsciously shifted closer to the bed. Then John started shifting himself upwards, wincing in pain. Paul shot up onto his knees in shock, grabbing onto John's arm.

"John, what are you _doing_?" He hissed, keeping his grip firm as John tried to pull away, avoiding Paul's eye.

"Christ I'm just sitting up!" He snapped, the tone back again.

"You can't sit up _yet_, are you crazy?"

"Yeah, maybe I am. I can sit up by myself, _James. _I'm not six months old!"

"No you can't, you're gonna hurt yourself!"

"_Stop telling me what to do_, you bloody twat! Either help me up or fucking let go!" John yelled, with so much desperation and anger in his voice that Paul loosened his grip in confusion. What was _wrong_ with him? John was still trying to push himself up, groaning at the pain, but there were now tears streaking down his face.

"John- _please, _stop! Just _stop! _You're gonna make it worse!" Paul pleaded, gently grabbing his arm again as he felt tears of his own well up. "Tell me- _tell me _what's _wrong _so I can _fucking help!" _

"Don't be ridiculous! There's nothing wrong." John croaked out with an air of finality, dropping back into his pillow, looking completely spent. Paul's heart was tearing at the sight, he _hated_ feeling so helpless.

"Maybe you _should_ rest now, Johnny, maybe you'll feel better when you wake up?"

"Paul…" John muttered. "I _can't._"

"You can't _what_?"

"I can't-" John choked out, then closed his eyes, as if not being able to see Paul would help him speak. "I can't go to sleep, Paul… I just _can't._" Paul didn't know what to say.

"Well, why not?" He said softly, cautiously drawing out the problem to find the answer. John took a deep breath.

"I'm _scared._"

Paul's stomach dropped and his heart slowed down immensely, his blood running cold and his eyes going wide.

"Why, Johnny? Why are 'ye scared?" He murmured, and John shook his head, glancing at the door.

"No, it's okay, nobody'll come in. George and Rings must have told them." Paul reassured him, softly but firmly rubbing John's arm from his position on the floor. John still wouldn't look at him, his face completely blank, but his eyes had opened and his voice had Paul panicking slightly.

"John, please. Please talk to me."

There was silence for a long while, then John finally spoke.

"Do- do y'know what they said? The doctors?"

"I-" Paul stopped, and shook his head. "No."

"They said I did it to meself," John swallowed, clenching his eyes shut. "With all the smoking and the drinkin' and the stress."

Paul's jaw dropped open in shock and anger. Nobody had told him that, but he couldn't _believe _they would tell him that.

"John-"

"I'm _scared _to go to sleep, Paul!" John let out a short, bitter laugh that made a sharp pang run through Paul's stomach. "Get it? I'm fucking _terrified _to go to _bed. _I'm afraid. I'm frightened. I'm absolutely scared _shitless, _all right? I'm fucking _scared! What if it happens again? What if I don't wake up this time? I can't, Paul, I fucking __can't!" _

Paul swallowed a sob, feeling every emotion at once nearly drowning him as they all surfaced. Both Beatles were now crying, silent sobs that wracked their bodies. John was boring holes into Paul, silently seeking reassurance.

"Don't _say _that, John! It's not gonna happen again, it can't!" Paul pleaded through the hiccups that had invaded his body, shaking his head feverishly.

"You don't know that! How do you know that?"

"I do, it's not possible!"

"But what if it does?"

"It won't. It won't happen again. I can't let it happen again. I _won't _let it happen," Paul insisted through the ocean of tears. He looked straight at John, and all of the feat and vulnerability and his almost childlike need to be _help _and comforted looked right back at him, melting his heart. "I _won't." _

You have no fucking clue how scary it was, Paul! I was running, it was dark. How fucking cliché that must sound, but, Christ, it was _so fucking dark! _My god, you have no idea… I could hear you and some doctors and a millions other voices, but I could hear you screaming and I could hear the others' and I couldn't see or think or feel anything, and I was just running around and holy _fuck _Paul, I can't go through that again. Don't make me go through that again." John's voice cracked a little bit as Paul just listened in a mild state of shock, but he went on.

"I was fucking _dead _for ten fucking minutes, which might not seem like a lot, but when you're running around a pit of pitch black and you can hear every damn thing that was happening and then when you wake up and _you're _not there anymore and all I can remember is you fucking _screaming _and I see all these doctors who just tell me I might be a mentally retarded _freak _who might not be able to sing or play or remember _anything _or _anyone and __nobody was fucking there-"_

"I'm _sorry, _John! I'm so fucking sorry. They made us leave and they wouldn't let us in, and I think I might've given Mal black eye 'cos I didn't _want _to leave and we were fucking _scared, _all right? We didn't know if you were gonna ever wake up, let alone if you could remember us! We didn't know if you'd be okay!"

"You still don't!"

"No, I don't, but _whatever _happens, John, I'm _here, _and I'm not leaving this time, all right? I'm not Julia, I'm not Stu, I'm not anyone who's gonna leave you. I'm _here, _and I'm not fucking leaving, all right?"

John finally stopped fighting the tears, and Paul put his arms around John's neck, pulling his friend in as close as it was physically possible. John broke down, sobbing outright into Paul's shoulder, and he held him steadily, rocking them back and forth, choking on his own tears.

"Don't leave. Please. Just stay with me. _Please?" _

"I'm not going anywhere, Johnny," Paul soothed gently, rubbing his best mate's shoulder. "I won't let anything happen. I'm right here."

They cried together for a while, and John eventually fell asleep in Paul's arms.

* * *

All four Beatles cried that day.

Ringo finally broke down in the shower, chastising himself for acting like a bird, but eventually giving in and letting it all out, sitting on the floor of the tub, letting the spray wash over him as he cried, long after the hot water ran out.

George held it in until he was alone in bed that night, then finally let everything out, relishing in not having to be the strong one anymore.

Paul cried some more as John fell asleep, with strangled, heaving sobs on the floor, still holding John's hand to assure himself that this was _real, _that John _really would be okay. _It didn't matter _what _happened now, Paul knew he'd never _ever _give up on the frightened man in front of him. With that thought, Paul drifted off on the floor, backed up against the wall, still clutching onto the hand he held as if life itself depended on it


	10. Chapter 10

**COULD IT BE?**

**OMG **

**IT _IS._**

**I'm SOOOORRRYYYYY jnswjnsdkns ok seriously I'm so fucking sorry you guys are so wonderful and I left you waiting so long nisjdsn but here okay I hope this squealer of a chapter makes up for it cuz i really like this one jsdnjhdsjdnhd john bby (but seriously all these feels over my own story YOLO)**

* * *

John'd lost track of how long he'd been just lying here. His shoulder hurt, his head hurt, his body felt like rubber, and- fucking hell- he hated being so weak. He supposed it was a good payoff, almost fucking dying, but getting to live.

Well, at least he was alive. And he supposed he should be happy for that, but for some reason, he was currently fighting the urge to cry. It didn't even feel right, he wasn't even sure why; he just felt numb, and he wanted to cry. Complete and utter breakdown, sobbing and screaming fit.

He numbly pondered over what would happen if he tried. Probably break a hip or something, given how he felt just about as strong as a newborn. Weak and pathetic and absolutely fucking helpless.

How ironic, given how rough and strong he supposedly was. That all it took to do him in was his own fucking traitor of a body, which was also currently trying it's best to make him cry.

Paul snored lightly to his left, and John felt him shifting slightly in his sleep before becoming still once again. They'd somehow fallen asleep holding each others hands, Paul leaned up against the wall and John still stuck in his bed. He'd been up for quite a bit, but he hadn't been able to let go. He just couldn't.

Choking down the lump in his throat, John weakly turned his head to look at Paul. He was there, he was real and solid and John could see him and feel the warmth of his hand and that made him feel that Paul- strong, steady Paul- was the only reason he hadn't broken down yet. That this exhausted, slumbering man in front of him, who had put up with so much of his bullshit and mood swings and insults, was still here. Sleeping on the floor, and probably destroying his back so he wouldn't have to leave him.

And if he knew how much Paul loved him, why did he still kind of wish he-John- had died?

Well aware that this was insane and probably definitely counted as suicidal, John couldn't shake it off. What was wrong with him? Maybe he just liked inflicting pain on people. It definitely felt that way, sometimes. Some of the utter shit he'd sprouted over the years, all the crap he'd put the people he loved through.

It'd be easier if he'd just died, right?

Too tired to even think anymore, John let his eyes fall shut, a single tear trailing down his cheek. And here he was, crying, over himself and his fucked up thoughts. He just gave selfish a whole new meaning.

"John?"

John would've jumped or even flinched if he'd had the energy. But he didn't, so he didn't. He just opened his eyes and warily regarded the ceiling, marvelling at how it somehow managed to be white, even in the near darkness.

"John? Are you- are you all right?" Paul's exhausted and nervous voice floated through the silence again, and John fought the urge to tell him to get out, even though no part of him wanted to be left alone.

"M'fine," He mumbled. His voice cracked. He didn't care. Just another betrayal, wasn't it?

He heard Paul shifting, felt him let go of his hand. He instantly felt lonely and unprotected, but he still didn't look at him. White was just such a marvellous colour, wasn't it?

"Drink." John turned his head an inch to find a plastic cup of water being held to his mouth. He looked up at Paul, right into the dull doe eyes holding thinly veiled concern, and drank. Water went down his dry throat, feeling a little too good to be true. They didn't break eye contact.

Paul seemed to know the second he was done, and he put the cup away, still not looking away. Feeling increasingly vulnerable, John tried to tear his eyes away.

It didn't work.

Next second, there were arms wrapped tight around him, and as he found himself tucked into a warm chest. Some of the numbness disappeared.

And John Lennon found himself hiccupping back pathetic, mewling sobs before he even knew it was happening. The arms tightened, the warmth remained, a gentle hand threaded through his hair, but his friend did not say anything. He didn't need to.

John still didn't know why he was crying. But for some reason, he felt as if Paul did, and that was clearly enough for now**.**


End file.
